A Dedication
by Bardic Jester
Summary: After Voldemort's death, Draco and Nott spent two years under house arrest. Nott was able to escape; Draco was not. Years later, after a chance meeting, Nott and Hermione start a love affair. Can she help Nott accept the past? Can they connect despite their opposing past? A story filled with sex, jazz, and regrets. A dedication to the past, and those moments shared.
1. A Dedication

A Dedication.

Draco used to stand next to the lake in a suit whenever a storm passed by. Did it for a number of years. Smoking his black cigarettes, while the rest of us hid inside. I used to see him through my kitchen window. Like clockwork, when a storm passed by, he'd be standing there. Always in a nice suit. Back after we had graduated from Hogwarts.

We lived in these tall white houses. With ugly flower shutters and cut lawns. Draco lived two doors down. We often shared a beer. Stayed that way for two years. Before I headed off to University. And Draco became lost to the darkness. Poisoned by the same blood which used to make him so proud. We often talked about blood. Sipping beers together in those ugly white houses.

Never asked Draco about why he stood out in the rain. Not sure he knew I noticed. Not sure he cared.

Draco's house was always spotless. He lived alone; his parents gone. I stayed with my grandfather. Grandpa was nearly senile then. Kept talking about his kids as if they were still there. Uncle had left years before. Dad was gone too. Always mixed me up with them. I hated the suggestion. It felt like he lived in the land of his dreams. Where his children did no wrong. Where the blood was washed from our hands. Draco was a good escape. Allowed me to have a real conversation. Kept me sane.

The fridge in Draco's house was always empty except for a collection of expensive cheese and a case of beer. I'd enter his house, pop open a can, and sit on his couch. All the surfaces bare. All of the pictures removed. We'd finish a case over a night. Made sure not to stop too soon. We became numb and drunk. Unable to focus on our hands. Unable to remember those crimes.

There were many of us living on the block suffering from the same disease. The same infection turning our skin rotten; decaying our teeth. It was a self styled prison of refugees. Those who had been on the wrong side. Whether they had a choice or not. The white houses were a series of grave stones marking the streets. A memorial to the past. A dedication to the failure. Grandpa still talked as if the cause was still alive. Like there were still battles to be won. I often thought of smothering him. Not sure where the feeling came from. Just built up in the back of my mind. It was an ugly time. Draco and I stayed drunk and drugged. Stealing my grandfather's prescriptions. Ugly, all of it.

Blaise and I had made a pack. Never to return to this awful hobble. Be it this block, or another. We wouldn't be swept into it. Not to join their ranks, with their bigoted thoughts and dirty blood. Blaise was gone now. Unable to judge my failure. His laugh silenced. Thought I heard it sometimes, when I was full of beer and Oxycontin. Not sure of anything then, though. Not sure about a lot of things. Blaise was a gentle guy. Didn't deserve the fate he received. Trapped in that awful play; forced to perform. A real life tragedy.

I'd been an outsider for most of it. Only associated by name really. Why I got off on the first round of pardons. But by name still felt real enough. Still on the wrong side. Can never get rid of a name either. Whenever I scrubbed off the dirt, my skin, the blood, the name always stayed.

At the time, I used to imagine that was what Draco used to do in the rain. Try to become clean. Can't imagine how cold it would have been; his clothes soaked through. Wearing a full suit. The cigarettes too moist to burn. A cleansing in nature. That's not my theory now though.

Not sure if he wanted to be, but Draco had been involved. He was not lucky like me. And when you get deep. Waist deep. You're trapped. In the snare, the more you move, the tighter it gets. Pulls on your neck till you're chocking. Gasping. Draco never got out. He lost everything. Forced to sit still and watch.

The days barely changed while we were there. Hours bleeding into other hours. Day became night. Conversations shared about little. Stuck in a nauseous stasis.

"Hey man," I greeted entering his door.

"Hey Nott." Draco replied from the other room.

I walked into his kitchen, grabbed the case of beer and brought it into his living room. Lounging on the couch, I opened the first bottle.

"Something about these sunny days. They bug me." I said.

"Haven't noticed." Draco said entering the room.

"I was walking around earlier outside. Down by the lake."

"Was it nice?"

"As nice as that lake ever is. Saw some rabbits together."

"Yeah? Cute buggers?"

"No. Sickly things. Blind, with the split eyes. Drooling all over the grass."

"Hope you didn't get too close to them. Those sorts of things are never good."

"I actually walked up to them. Tried to see them more closely. Maybe understand what was wrong with them." I said.

"You're kidding, right?" he asked, forcefully. "What good would have come from getting close? They're all dead anyways. What was ailing them is not going to matter when they die. Wouldn't matter if you died from it too either."

"Don't worry. They ran away. Guess they could still hear."

"Good."

"It's weird, can't remember the last time I saw something alive around here. Like really alive."

"A sign of the times," he said.

There was a particularly nasty storm one day. Raged for hours. Draco stood in the rain, by the lake. I kept passing by my kitchen window. Stealing glances. He wore his suit. The clothes drenched. Staring into the lake. Never moved, throughout the whole affair. His blonde hair wet and muted. Must have been out there for the whole thing. Standing. Stoic. Alone with the droplets of water. As the hours passed by. Never moved from his spot. His hands were shaking by the end. Cigarettes too wet to smoke. Must have been cold. Bone chillingly cold. Cutting through his skin. Splitting his limbs. Yet he stood out there, stubborn.

Got real sick afterwards. A fever burning his head. Bedridden for days. Each breath followed by a series of coughs. A body barely there. Covered in hot sweats. Skin pale as a ghost. Swear I could look right through him. Pass my hand through his chest. He never mentioned the storm. I never enquired about the cause. I sat in silence by his bed. Watching. Hoping he would be alright.

Around that time, I entered my father's room for the first time. Looking for some clues. An answer hidden somewhere. A note, or even an excuse would do. I found nothing. Only discovered my father's old collection of records. A stack of different symphonies and operas. I started to listen to them. Play them in my attic room. Loud. Til I could feel it. My body moved. The room shaking with the vibrations. Playing into my whole being. Cut off from the rest of the world. Existing as one with the music. Feeling only the music. Suspended. Touched. And distracted.

Listening to those records was the only time I ever felt at home, in that ugly white house. My grandfather was somewhere else. Not my problem. Unaware if the bastard was even there. Let me imagine he wasn't. Like the house used to be when I was a child. Back when it was my home. When there was hope. And life on our block. Not the dead which filled it then. Not that white which painted the street. Those ugly fucking houses.

I brought the record player into Draco's room during his sickness. Placed it in the corner. Put on "Tristan und Isolde". The most beautiful of the records. A piece larger than anything ever written. We sat in our usual silence. Draco ghost like. I smoked cigarettes by his side. Soaking in the sounds of the Opera.

Near the end, Draco spoke. "Do you know the story of Tristan and Isolde?"

"No," I said.

"Neither do I. I wonder what they are singing about. It must be a tragedy."

"Seems likely."

"How sad. Imagine being a character. Always dying by the end. Facing the fate written into the story. An inevitability. Although, I guess that's true of all of us. We all die. We're really all just waiting for our own final note." Draco said.

"I guess so. Our fate isn't as immediate though. We still have many more years before we need to face that." I held the black cigarette between my fingers.

"You know, I keep trying to imagine they're singing about great joy. And that things will work out in the end. They'll be able to be together, and be happy. But," he wavered. I brought the cigarette to my mouth. Inhaled. "But I can't imagine it. I can't. I just can't see how things could turn out okay." Draco held his face in his hands, and cried. I put my hand on his shoulder. In a silence filled with his weeps.

After that, I felt like I knew why Draco stood out in the rain. He was not trying to be cleansed. He was not trying to be washed clean of his former sins. He was crying. A standing eulogy. Paying respect to the past. A personal funeral, in the rain. To all that he had lost. Standing there, alone in the rain. A proud boy, hiding the tears running down his face.

Voldemort was killed near Plymouth by a group of Aurors, days before we graduated from Hogwarts. The pureblood revolution ended prematurely, before it became a true civil war. Draco was with the Dark Lord at the time. A number of students in seventh year left school to fight for a side. Half the class never finished school. Like a coward, I kept my head down. Fought for neither side. Stayed neutral at the school, finishing my classes. Wish I had picked a side. Been against the Death Eaters. I only respected them out of a misguided sense of family obligation. A regret which churned in my stomach. Like I had swallowed decaying teeth.

Draco never spoke of his time with Voldemort. The Death Eaters were a violent group. Largely targeting civilian groups. Muggles or mudbloods. I read the charges eventually laid upon Draco. It's hard to judge from the outside. The extent his hands were forced. Whether he really had a choice. Still, he lived with a huge weight on his shoulders. He did things. Saw things. Things which would never go away.

When I returned from Hogwarts, I discovered my father gone. No note. No message. No word. Gone. Only my grandfather, with his dementia and alzheimers. My grandfather new what happened to my father. But the memories were gone. He held the answers to my questions, but was no longer able to tell me. Was my father dead? In hiding? With Death Eaters? The bastard had no idea. Could not even differentiate between my father and I. Often referred to me as him. Almost to worsen the insult. I begged him. Cried. Gained nothing.

My grandfather had done enough damage. Poisoned my family. Lead us to ruin. Lost my mother and uncle to his suggestions in the first Voldemort Revolution. Never got to meet my mom. Their actions dictated by my grandfather's bigoted thoughts. His sense of family obligation. Now my father was gone too. Leaving me alone with him. I wished he were dead.

After Voldemort's death, there was a crackdown on Death Eater sympathizers. People rounded up. The losers shamed, and brought forward for their crimes. A raid on a pureblood neighbourhood near Sutton turned especially bloody. The Death Eaters retaliating with force. Many caught in the crossfire. Many dead. I still remember reading Blaise's name in the paper. Like a dream. Like a swift blow. My reaction was guttural: to vomit. And then to cry.

The Ministry changed tactics after the failure in Sutton. All of us who were members of known sympathetic pureblood families were put in a legal limbo. Not allowed to work, study, travel, or associate. Until we were either pardoned or charged. A reverse onus. Guilty until proven innocent.

Took nearly two years for the first round of pardons to be released. My name was on the list. A surreal moment. Like I had awoken from a terrible nightmare. I could leave the block. Escape the ugly white house. Leave my grandfather to his own devices. I was free. But something in me did not let me leave. I could not abandon the rest of them. To discard Draco. Like my father had done to me.

One night, after the pardons had been released, we sat together in Draco's living room. Sharing a case of beer. Splitting three packs of cigarettes arraigned on his coffee table. Like we had done throughout the last two years. Drunk, we were sharing stories of our past. Revelling in nostalgia.

"Remember how you, me, and Blaise used to talk in the common room of Slytherin?" Draco asked.

"Yeah." I replied.

"We used to make plans. Decide our futures. Always said we'd study at Saint George University together. Rent a flat downtown in London." Draco said joyfully. Smiling in his recollection.

"I remember. You were insistent on a loft. Didn't matter the price. Just needed to be loft." I said.

"Hey man, lofts are cool. Just think how many girls we could have picked up if we lived in a loft. Those things are carte blanches to get laid. We'd just mention we live in a loft, and bam! They'd be all over us," Draco said with a laugh.

"Maybe for you. I'm about as smooth as a rough razor around girls."

"You're too hard on yourself Nott. It's a skill. We'd just go dancing regularly. Learn the ropes. Pick up on the subtleties. You'd get the hang of it."

"I guess so."

Draco smiled. "You know, I always imagined this girl with an ugly dress. Like a lime green. Slim fit. Not even particularly attractive. With blonde hair and long legs. Whenever I thought of going dancing, and girls, this was the girl who came to mind. Every time. And even when I thought of picking up multiple girls, they were are forms of the girl in the ugly green dress. For all the promiscuity I talked about, that's never what it looked like in my mind. Just the girl in the green dress. My life's only love."

"At least you're setting your standards high," I joked.

Draco frowned and punched me in the shoulder. With a stoic face he said "don't insult her man. She's serious business. I won't hear words against her." His stern face betrayed by his giggles, and the two of us shared laughter. "Speaking of serious business, what are you planning to do? You can actually do some this now, eh?"

"To be honest, I haven't really thought of it. Sort of content where I am now. You know?"

"Don't even joke about that." Draco frowned. "Seriously, what are your plans?"

"I really haven't though about it. I don't know. Doesn't feel right to leave." I said, staring away.

"That's bullshit. There's nothing more right than to leave this fucking place. I'd given anything to escape. The only thing which is stuck here is death."

"I don't want to though. I don't want to abandon you, Draco. This place is nearly unbearable as it is. I can't imagine staying without you. I don't want you to stay without me."

"Please Nott, don't think like that. You'd only be abandoning me if you stayed. If you stay, then you have abandoned your life. Given up your hope. There's nothing worse you could do to me than that. Far worse than leaving me here. Please, promise me you won't. Promise you'll leave here and live. Really live. Not this purgatory we have been stuck in."

"Alright Draco, I promise."

I left for University in Ireland a few months later. Sold the house and left my grandfather in a care home. Only brought a suitcase of clothes and my father's record collection with me. Started a new phase in my life.

Half way through my first year, charges were laid against Draco. First time I had read of his crimes. Draco hanged himself soon afterwards. In that ugly white house. Alone.

I still think of him regularly. Standing out there in the rain. Wearing his full suit. Crying.

...

There was a party I once attended. A fancy sort of affair. At a bar near the south side of London called No Where, rented out by the Ministry. Women wearing slender black cocktail dresses. A live band jamming what sounded like an Oscar Peterson tune. I wore a tailored jacket and no tie. Kept mostly to myself. Drank the complimentary wine. Chatted with a few people who passed by. Sharing a couple words, nothing more. Just tried to enjoy the music and my drink.

Near the end of the evening the crowd had become thin. I'd found a comfortable corner to concern myself in. A colleague from the University passed by and introduced me to his companion. Hermione Granger, someone I knew from my days at Hogwarts. A history which seems so distant now. My colleague passed on, interested in other things. Hermione stayed.

Her hair was long and tied back. She wore a dress to her knees with thin shoulder straps. A white necklace tied tight around her throat. The ensemble was attractive; slender in the cut. I could barely recognize her. Three rings around her right fingers, none on her left. She had aged well. Stood with confidence; held her whiskey glass firm.

"I hear you're a professor at Saint George University now Nott," she said, stirring her glass with her finger.

"Yeah. And please, call me Theo. I prefer if people don't call me Nott," I said.

"Sure, Theo. It's a good school. Best Wizarding University in Britain. Spent four years there getting my undergrad. You study there?"

"No, they wouldn't let me in because of ... I attended Clonfert in Ireland. Nice place. You work in the Ministry?"

"Yeah, as a lawyer. Just started actually. It's been taking some getting used to. Never lived in downtown London before. I was in Geneva the last couple of years."

"What were you doing there?"

"Working on the legal status of wizard refugees in developing nations. Might sound interesting, but it was mostly mindless paperwork. Looking forward to the change here, at least." she said.

"The novelty will wear off soon enough. London's a dreary place." I said.

"I have a nice flat close to the Ministry. Been going on these long walks. Watching the birds off the Thames. Seems lively enough. Haven't got tired of it yet."

She took a sip of her whiskey and continued. "You ever watch Manhattan?"

"The film?"

"Yeah."

"Years ago," I said.

"Woody Allen starts off the narration talking how much he adores the city. But not because it was nice. Loved the grime, the waste, the decay. I'd like to imagine I could like a city like that. Find the wonder in the faults."

She took another sip.

"It's nice to see you Theo. I don't think I've seen you since, you know. All of that stuff. I remember reading the first list of pardons in the paper. I was glad to see your name there. I always hoped you weren't involved. You always seemed better than the others," she said.

"I'd rather not talk about that. Many of them were on the wrong side, but I lost some friends in that mess," I said.

"I heard about Draco. Nasty piece of business."

"That's enough." I pushed past Hermione and walked towards the door.

"Theo stop!" Hermione called, grabbing my arm. "I didn't mean it like that. I'm sorry. You think I didn't lose friends too? We all suffered."

"I never said you didn't."

"Look. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up. It was stupid. Can we start again?"

The band started another song. A slower jam. Felt like Miles Davis. A real soft horn blowing. Like Blue in Green.

"You like music?" I asked.

"A bit. Yourself?"

"I used to like it really loud, and really full. Like big band stuff. But I haven't been able to stand it for the longest time. Now I like these real smooth songs. The glassy stuff. Get me?"

"I don't know. When it's slow like this, I always think of back then. You know, when things were easier. When things felt simpler."

"That's the beauty of it. It's a lie. A beautiful lie."

Hermione touched my forearm delicately. "Can I have a dance?"

"Sure."

We moved in closer. Arm placed on arm. Alone on the dance floor. Our embrace fragile. The soft horn crying. Playing us away.

...

...

...

Author's Notes: This story is heavily influenced by the work and style of Haruki Murakami.

I hope you liked it.

Please Leave a Review.

Thanks. BJ.


	2. You and I

Chapter 2: You and I

I smoked four cigarettes in her bed. The window opened slightly. Letting a light breeze blow in the warm summer air. I was naked. Watched my skin move with each breath. Every inhale, and every exhale. How the shape of my body moved. Life passing through me. As the smoke danced from my lips.

The room lacked character. A washed white covered the walls. There was no furniture except for a small dresser at the foot of the bed. The walls were empty. No pictures or paintings, or personal markings at all. There was nothing. A blank room.

The arch of her back laid out beside me. Her sheets hung down over the top of her legs. She was slender. A different body than I remembered. From those brief moments back at school. At the time, she was small and curvy. Now she resembled a line. Her hips barely there. The curve of her ribs straight. I placed my hand on her side. Felt the way she breathed. The warmth of her skin. Her movements were more fluid than mine. It was years since I'd slept next to someone. Being close to life.

Next to Hermione Granger; a place I never imagined.

I found a bottle of whiskey in a cupboard over her stove. I poured myself a glass and sat at the small wooden table. The kitchen was spotless. All of the details were nicely arranged. Spices were organized on a rack. The dishes were stacked and ordered. Again, the walls were bare. No pictures, or personal novelties hanging on the wall. The drapes were an awful sunflower design; looked to be years old. Next to the table, a small glass ashtray was placed on the windowsill. I grabbed it and lit a final cigarette. Opening the window a sliver, I watched the view outside. A busy street, three floors down, filled with cars and people moving. Caught up in the speed of their lives.

Hermione joined me wearing loose brown pants. Her hair tangled. She had her coffee black, and topped it off with some of the whiskey from my glass. She sat down across from me. Grabbed the pack of cigarettes I'd laid on the table, and moved the ash tray closer to her. "Good morning Theo," she spoke, looking for a lighter.

"Morning Hermione." I replied. I tossed her the lighter I'd been using. "Your place is pretty bare."

She lit the tip of a cigarette between her lips. Deeply, she inhaled, her stomach and breasts rising. The light touched her skin delicately. She shone in the sun. With an exhale, she took the cigarette out of her mouth, and said "Looks dreary doesn't it? I didn't feel like bringing any of my things from Geneva."

"Why's that?"

"When I started packing them, it did not feel like they were mine. It was like I was trying to move someone else's stuff. Like cleaning out an apartment of someone who died. It all felt dead. I thought, there's no reason to bring a dead person's things, so I left it all there. I'll get new things here. Hopefully things which make me feel more alive. If that makes any sense."

"I think it does." I said.

...

There were four women before Hermione. Four women I slept with. None were particularly pretty.

The first was Libby. A short girl with black hair. We lived on the same floor of our dorm in first year University. The building was made of red brick, and shaped as square. My room was a single. A small rectangle with a bed, desk, and my pile of records. I studied hard in the first year. Tried to focus myself singularly. Helped to stop my wandering thoughts. To deter those memories back on the block. They felt toxic whenever they reentered my brain. Like a disease slowly breaking down the cells. A sickness, which would never go away.

When the charges for Draco were laid, it felt like a storm had moved in. I was conflicted. He was my friend, but he also did these terrible things. I did not know how to think. I locked myself in my room for days. The disease spread. Those ugly white houses refused to leave my mind. I would sit, on the windowsill, and smoke my black cigarettes. Playing my records of Wagner and Verdi loud enough to feel.

Things changed after Draco died. I could not go to his funeral. Part of the terms of my admittance to Clonfert barred me from associating with any known Death Eaters. Draco had been the one who insisted I go and study, so I did not risk it. Instead, I started to drink. Trapped in that single room. Only leaving to attend class briefly. In a particular bought of drunken madness, I was enraged. Angry at the world for all the wrongs it did to me. I broke the window of my room, and I smashed my record of Tristan and Isolde, the one I played for Draco. Regret quickly built in me. And I cried for the first time since reading my friend's name. I was tired of it. Tired of reading about dead friends.

I decided things needed to change. I was going to change. I needed to leave my room. I needed to see other people. Or else let the disease eat away at my brain.

Libby was from a family of Death Eaters. She, like me, had been in the first wave of pardons. Her, two years younger than me, had spent her last two years at Hogwarts, finishing school. Dumbledore had allowed a number of students he hand picked continue to study at the school. She described it like living in a prison. Not able to leave her room after class. Escorted everywhere on the grounds. Given a routine shake up. The guards padding her down, touching her breasts and rubbing their calloused hands on the crotch of her pants. Still, she was thankful. Thankful to have been able to finish school. And to avoid some of the Death Eater ghettos. They were places far worse than Hogwarts.

Her two brothers had been the real threat. They were among the group trying to continue the fight after Voldemort's death. The two of them blew up a coffee shop near the ministry. Killed a dozen people. They became the legitimization of some of the harsher tactics of the government. Their executions were a public spectacle. Libby thought her life was over after the affair. Thankfully Dumbledore lobbied for her pardon. Wouldn't have been able to get into Clonfert otherwise. They were only giving Death Eaters with amazing marks in the first round of pardons admittance into the University. There were few of us.

Libby was ostracized at the school. People were still angry about her brothers' crimes. We would talk in her room. I'd sit on her floor, with my back to the wall. She'd lie on her bed, staring at the ceiling. It often felt like I was talking to a ghost. She was silent. After the pain she went through. Hated for the actions of others. She seemed ethereal. She reminded me of Draco when he was sick. Like I could pass my hand through her. A shadow barely there. Numb to the world around her.

The day after I broke my record, I was sitting in her room. She laid silently on her bed. One of her Cure records were playing. I watched as she breathed. Her black hair resting to her side. I moved forward and pressed my lips against her. My first real kiss. She said nothing, but she wrapped her arms around me and brought me closely. We continued to kiss. I moved on top of her. My hand slipped under her shirt. Curling my fingers into the cup of her bra. Her skin felt static to the touch. The hairs raised.

We went no further. She said no words. I left in the middle of the night. In my room, I took off my clothes and smoked half a pack of cigarettes. Draco was out of my mind. For the moment, at least.

It took a few more weeks before we had sex. The whole affair was awkward and sloppy. Libby never spoke; I did not know what was good or bad. I remember lying on top of her. Her eyes staring back at me. An empty glare. I wondered how she felt about me. She never said a word. Her nails dug into my back; her grip firm. But, what I would have given to know some of her thoughts. Did I mean anything?

We went on no dates. I'd finish my school work, and walk into her room. She'd play her pop music. Sometimes we shared a drink. Sometimes we shared each others bodies. Rarely, did we say anything at all. Libby was locked up in her mind. The key to her speech was beyond my reach. I expected I would break down her barriers eventually. She would open up to me. Give me a picture of who she was. How she was. She only spoke of the past. Of times long gone. Back when things were nice. When everything seemed fair.

"My brother gave me this album," she once spoke. New Order's Power, Corruption & Lies playing.

"Yeah? Which one?" I asked.

"John. He gave it to me to commemorate my first day at Hogwarts. I thought he was angry at me. I was sorted into Ravenclaw. He and Henry always talked about Slytherin. I was sure I was going to be put there too. I felt like I let them down when I wasn't. John didn't seem to mind though. After the feast, he walked up to me, and gave me this record."

"Did he often do stuff like that?"

"Yeah," she said with a smile. "John loved to find excuses to give gifts. Most of my record collection is made of his presents. Henry never did. Henry always wanted you to earn it. John was a giving person. He liked helping people. That's why he was a prefect." She said

"I remember him." I spoke.

She started to cough. A twitch which quickly turned to weeps. I moved over, and wrapped her in my arms.

I wished I had answers to her actions. It felt like those few words were always covers to darker feelings. She needed someone to help her. To reconcile those thoughts which fought in her brain. But, I was not that person. In a sense, I was just using her. She was a good distraction. Helped to get Draco out of my head. I like to hope I was serving as a distraction to her too. As a distraction, at the least, I was helping. And not making matters worse.

At the end of first year, Libby moved out without telling me. I found her room empty after an exam. All of her possessions were gone. It was like she'd never been there in the first place. I sat down in my usual spot on the floor. Staring at the now empty bed. I smoked a hand full of cigarettes. Humming her favourite Smiths song under my breath.

She gave no further address at the front desk. Never saw her again. Every time I walked through the Clonfert campus, I'd look to see if I could find her. Look to see her face in every crowd. Hoping things worked out for her. I do not blame her for leaving as she did. We were not really in a relationship. And she needed more help than I could provide. Still, I would have liked to say good bye.

The next girl was a student of mine while I was doing grad work. Jen was tall with bold red hair. She burst into my office while I was the TA of an undergrad course during my phd work in Toronto. There was something electric about her. She energized the area around herself. Always had something to talk about. I barely remember getting a word in edgewise during our first meeting. She'd visit me weekly during my office hours. Not for help, Jen was smart. One of the top students in her class. But I think she liked the assurance my authority granted. She felt special under my gaze. It felt natural when she asked me out for a drink. We had a nice time. The sex was great. Libby laid firm the whole time. Jen took control.

Our affair was brief. We both new the arrangement was temporary. When she expressed desire to end the fling a couple months later, I wilfully agreed. Jen and I stayed friends during my time in Toronto. She was a nice spark of life.

I met Meg during my contract work in New York. She was a masters student at the school. Seton was a small university hidden away in the cracks of Brooklyn. I had just received my phd. Hoping to make my mark on the academic world. Filled with optimism for the first time in ten years. I stayed in a small flat of another professor in Green Point while he did field research in the Mid-West. The roof had a spectacular view of Manhattan. I'd sit outside as the sun went down, smoking my black cigarettes and feeling insignificant. Watching the orange haze hang around the crown of the towers. A glow like gold.

Meg ran her life meticulously. Her eyes were a brilliant colour. In the dim light, they let off a weak glow. She had short brown hair. Cut high above her ears. Her words were always succinct and sharp. She spoke like a weapon; blunt observations and clear imperatives. She always wanted control. She was convinced she could make everything better. And she worked hard enough, that there was some truth there.

But, Meg was special. She worked that hard because she cared. There was a deep personal attention in all of her actions. And she cared more about me than anyone else I'd ever met. I was nothing special to Libby or Jen. Jen saw me as a cool professor; for Libby, I was never more than the boy who talked to her. Meg liked Theo. She liked me.

To be honest, I couldn't see what she saw in me. I've always been a wreck. Where was my attractiveness to a perfectionist? She always wanted to be moving. I stayed still. Our personalities never aligned. She was a straight edge trying to run beside a jagged edge. There were too many points of contention about me. Places I was unwilling to see; things I was unwilling to face. Meg was filled with strength. I'd bled my strength out years before. Hoping to save myself from the fate Draco faced. Filled with the poison of the past; of bloodlines.

I broke up with Meg before I left for London. My first heartbreak. She was wearing a red blouse, and blue jeans. There was no fight, no tears, just silence. She held my hand. Tightened her grip. In a last effort to hold on. Trying to stop me from leaving. We were an inevitability. There was no future between us. And in the moment, we shared the last remnants of our time together.

Finally, there was the girl in the green dress. I was in a jazz club near Bloomsbury. Reading a copy of the Sound and the Fury. I had just arrived in London. Waiting for my job to begin in the coming weeks. I drank martinis and read in the dim lights; letting the horns sing away my nights.

The girl in the green dress was drinking at the bar. She looked exactly how Draco described her. The dress was ugly. A bright green which glowed in the dim light. The cut was small. Her form tightly defined. The skirt ended at her mid thigh. Her legs longs. She wore these dark red stilettos. Lifted her inches into the air. Like she walked right out of Draco's imagination. With the bright blonde hair he spoke about. His life's only love, standing in the ugly dress before me.

How do you act, faced with an imaginary being? An ideal presented to you in the flesh. I moved to the stool next to hers. Took me a few minutes to build enough courage to speak. I introduced myself as Draco. In the moment, I was a channel for my friend. The vessel in which he could live. Draco never got this opportunity. I was going to give him the opportunity. I needed to. If his dream could step into life, why could he not step into life once more as well?

She told me her name. I do not remember it. It did not matter. I knew it was a lie. Draco's dream involved all girls. They were all the girl in the green dress. No single name could capture the idea. No word was right. Any name was a lie.

We drank Tom Collins. I told her about magic. About an old couple: a man and a woman, who had grown old together. Close to death, they made a decision. To turn back time to when they were young. Back when they first met. It was easily done, but at a cost. They would lose all of their memories. Only fragments of their life could be remembered in their dreams. The couple thought: we fell in love once, surely we can do it again. If we cannot fall back in love, then we were not meant to be together. It was a reasonable risk. But they both had faith, in their love, and in each other.

So they turned back the clocks. Aged back to their youth. Their wrinkles gone. The strength returned. With more energy than they'd experienced in decades. And, their life together gone from their heads. They stood in a park. At the exact moment they met. Ready to restart their life together.

But, faced with a stranger he did not know, the boy walked away. He entered a busy street, and disappeared. The girl simply watched. Having no conception of the significance. Never having a chance to fall back in love. Never having the opportunity to fall out. Never knowing what she'd lost. Their future gone.

The two of them continued to live their lives in total ignorance. There was nothing unusual about their lives, except their fantasies and dreams. For each time one of their minds wandered, a particular boy entered the woman's head, and a particular girl entered the man's head. The other would invade their dreams. Individually, both of them began to look for this other person. Looking at the faces of people from their moving car. Wondering in every crowd, whether they saw the person of their dreams.

One day, they walked by each other. Both of them recognizing the other. But, neither of them said anything. How could they explain it? How could the other understand the pictures of their dreams. Neither suspected that, maybe the other also had the same dreams. So they walked by each other. Feeling like they'd entered their dreams. Like their fantasies walked out of their heads. And neither knowing what to do then. Unwilling to believe in the truth of those images; the love of his life: that girl, the love of her life: that boy.

"What a sad story," she said. We had more drinks, and shared a taxi to my flat. Her skin was cold. The movements of her body supernatural. It was a unique experience: having sex with Draco's dream.

I woke up the next morning alone. There was no trace of her. No note, or message. Everything looked to be in the right place. Like the events of the night before had not happened. I made myself some toast, and heard the chirps of the morning birds.

...

"You do this often?"

"What?" I asked.

"This," she said, motioning her hand.

"No, can't say I do."

"Neither do I."

I took a sip from my glass of whiskey. The cars screeched below us. Hermione closed the window. Her skin reflected the light. The line of her body illuminated. She moved the ash tray back onto the window, and leaned back into her chair. Her chest rising with each breath.

"When did you move in?" I asked, steering the conversation back towards the flat.

"About two weeks ago. It's been a little bit of a shock. I'm not used to the noise yet."

"Geneva was quieter?"

"Where I was, at least. I lived in a town home outside the edge of the city. Real pretty area. Rolling green hills, and a great view of the water."

"Why'd you leave?" I asked.

"I was afraid," she spoke. "An unsettling feeling which festered in my stomach. That I had died years ago. My body continued to move, but my soul, my mind, whatever, was gone. I was this empty husk, going through the routine. Nothing felt new, or exciting, or real. I was stuck performing in an endless cycle: wake up, work, eat, clean, sleep. It was like I was trapped in a whirlpool; unable to escape; unable to connect with anyone; unable to be me. Then, a coworker of mine got sick, it felt like a shock. A reminder that I'm alive. That I can break the routine. So I applied for this job in London, and left as soon as I was able."

"Why London?"

"I know the city. Lived here while I studied at Saint George. I wouldn't have to go through the anxiety of moving to a new place. Plus, I wanted somewhere more exciting than Geneva. Somewhere I could do new things. London felt like a good fit."

"Have you done many new things?"

"Not really. Except last night."

"Glad to be a service. Were you looking for new things last night?"

"Perhaps."

"And I was the easiest looking?"

"You were the most convenient. Yes." She said.

"Sounds like you're experienced." I commented.

"I assure you, I'm not. Just thought our shared past would make things simpler."

"Despite us being on opposite sides during that past?"

"I never saw you as an enemy."

"Neither did I."

"To be honest, I was just glad to talk to someone from back then. Sure, we were on opposite sides. Our experiences different in every way. But, we still experienced it. That was a very particular time, and we played a very particular role in it. It's been hard. Hard to connect with others. Others who did not experience it with us. They don't understand. And I can't explain it to them. Not to say that I understand you Theo. Or that I understand what you went through. But there is some assurance there. Some assurance that you know about what I talk about, when I talk about then. You get me?"

"I think. What happened to all the others you knew? That Ron boy?"

"I haven't spoken to Ron in over ten years." She took a sip of her coffee. "When I came back to London, I was hoping to see some of the old faces. Reconnect with parts of my life I left behind. But, truthfully, I haven't made a single phone call, or looked anyone up. No one knows I back in London. You're my only witness."

"I feel honoured."

"You should be."

I finished my glass of whiskey, and put on the remainder of my clothes. Hermione stayed in the kitchen. The rays of the sun caressing her skin. "It was nice to meet you again Hermione," I said moving to the door.

"Can I see you again Theo?" she asked.

"I'd like that."

I took out a card in the jacket of my suit, and wrote down my number. I placed the card on her counter, and headed outside towards the tube.


	3. Echoes

Chapter 3: Echoes

Hermione called me on a warm day in May. The semester was ending soon. Stacks of paper coverred my desk; essays needed to either be marked or filed. I preferred to be outside, in the warm sun. I was smoking in the courtyard below my office. Her voice was soft over the phone, like a friend.

She suggested we grab drinks later. I agreed. The stacks of papers could wait another day. She suggested a quiet bar off the thames, close to where she lived, called Tender Buttons. It had a patio surrounded by tall stone walls coverred in ivy, and cheap pints. Old black lampposts burnt candles in the corners, coverring the air with a warm light.

We decided to meet around eight. I headed home. When I arrived at my flat: I showered, shaved, and put on some nice clothes. I chose a white dress shirt without a tie, and black slacks. The sun began to set outside. I boiled some noodles with kale and spinach, and coverred it with sweet sauce. A Love Supreme played from my stereo; Coltrane's sax talked over the silence. I sat on my couch and read Fitzgerald while time passed by.

I left my flat at seven, wearing my leather jacket to hold off the cold. I made my way down to the tube, and travelled to Embankment. The temperature began to drop. The warm day faded into a brittle night. A bright moon hung in the sky. I arrived at Tender Buttons first. The patio was empty. I sat in the corner. A lamppost radiated a soft orange glow, warming the back of my neck. I orderred two pints of Fuller's Chiswick, and watched the grey light of the moon climb the ivy walls around me.

Hermione arrived a few minutes late. She wore a black dress, with an evening jacket around her shoulders. A light black scarf was wrapped around her neck, draping down her right side. The jacket was cut high, just above her slender hips. She wore her long hair tied back. A refined look. Barely resembled the girl I'd last seen, with her brown pants, tangled hair, and exposed breasts. She sat across from me at the table; her pale skin glowed in the light. She grabbed one of the pints, and took a sip.

"How have you been Nott?" she asked.

"I've been well. Yourself?"

"I've been alright. I think I'm starting to get used to this city."

"Yeah? Is your flat still bare?"

She chuckled, slightly. "No. I bought some things. It feels a little more full now."

"What did you get?" I asked.

"Well," she paused, taking a sip of her pint. "I bought a nice painting from a local art gallery. One of those hole in the wall places, with large metal sculptures in the front window. I pass by it whenever I go out for food on my lunch break. About a week ago, I headed in to see their selection. Most of the works were big over priced landscapes, but near the back there was this great portrait of a girl with really red hair, like blood red. She had this stare, a piercing stare; one that makes you self conscious in its gaze. I thought it was beautiful, makes me feel, I don't know, alive, if that means anything. Anyways, so I bought it. It hangs next to my bed, so I see it every morning."

"Sounds abrasive to wake up to." I commented.

She smiled. "That's sort of the point. I want something jarring to greet me in the morning. Something loud yelling 'you are alive'! Might be silly, but it's the kind of therapy I need."

We finished our drinks, and ordered another round. Hermione ordered a double scotch on the side, along with her beer. She stirred the drink with her finger, taking sips between swigs of her pint. "What's your flat like Theo? You have a nice place?"

"It's much smaller than yours, but I like it. It's the basement of another Professor's house. The bedroom's an old closest, extended when it was converted to an apartment, it only fits my bed, a bookshelf, and a small wardrobe. The living room is filled with milk crates holding my record collection. They take up most of the floor space. I have to step over them to get to my couch or desk. My kitchen's small, next to the entrance. There's no cupboards, but I nailed some wooden shelves on the wall."

"Cozy." Hermione said in a sarcastic tone.

"It's nice, in its own way."

Hermione took out a pack of cigarettes from her evening jacket, and rested it on the table. She took out a cigarette from the pack, put it in her mouth, and lit it with a match, exhaling in one long, slow breath. "Sounds like we should switch places. I have too much room, and nothing to fill it. Your place is overflowing. The only logical decision is to switch."

I nodded, taking a sip of my beer.

She continued. "How close is it to the University?"

"It's just on the other side of the student ghetto."

"That must be convenient." She inhaled. Her chest rose. The tip burned red.

"It is."

"Theo?" Her voice soft.

"Yeah?"

"What do you teach? I don't think you've told me."

"Haven't I?" I grabbed the pack from the table, and took a cigarette for myself. I held out my lighter, and lit it. "What do you think I teach?"

She paused for a moment, considering the options. "You know what? I have no idea. I've met a few professors who, when you meet them, you know immediately what they teach. It's so firmly a part of who they are, you can't separate them from their speciality. For you, though, I couldn't even give a rough guess."

"I teach magical runes, specifically ancient stuff."

"Really?" She sat back in her chair, thinking. Her fingers twisted the cigarette resting on her thumb. A cold wind blew through us. "I took a course on magical runes, back in my undergrad.

The professor was good, an old guy with an American accent, and I did well in the class, but, there was something about it." She chuckled. "I don't think I liked it."

"Few do, according to my students at least." I admitted, matter of fact.

Hermione laughed. A wide grin dawned over her red lips. "So Theo, what makes it different for you? What's its charm to someone who's dedicated his life to it?"

"Charm? That might be the right word to describe it. I'm not sure I particularly like ancient runes either."

"How do you mean?" Hermione asked. She tightened her grip around the scotch. The tip of her finger rested lightly on the surface. Under the warm light of the lamp posts, the golden drink seemed to glow. A little glare, in our clear states.

"Well," I started. The cigarette burnt between my fingers. "I did not choose to study ancient runes because I enjoyed it. To be honest, at the time, I cared little about whether I liked the subject or not." I took another sip of my pint, and watched the smoke lift through my grasp. The words did not come immediately, but, slowly, they began to fall out of my mouth. "I just wanted something that I could forget myself in. Where I could ignore all of that stuff I'd went through, before heading to university. I wanted to be as irrelevant, as far away as I could be from real life as possible. It was an escape, really."

The smile on Hermione's face dimmed, and she spoke reassuringly. "What inspired you to teach it then? Has your opinion changed at all?"

"Teaching was a convenience. I received a nice scholarship to do my grad work in Canada. I followed through the motions, and ended up here."

"Nott, you teach at the best wizarding university in Britain, I doubt you could get that position merely going through the motions. There must have been something special about it."

"I'm here mostly due to luck. My phd supervisor was Sarah Willard. Her theory on Ancient magical runes has really challenged the traditional way of handling them in the last couple of years. You see, before, they were treated as a chronicle of time. A rune would mark a kind of magic at a particular time. They told the history of magic, in a sense. But, there was always a problem with this view, we could never replicate the magic held in the runes. Many theories were proposed to explain why this was; one of which, held by many death eaters, was that our magical ability has been diluted by our association, acceptance, and mating with mudbloods. If magic were pure, they would claim, we could regain that old power."

I continued. "Sarah's theory suggests the runes are not a chronicle, but rather a fiction. They are closer to a play written long ago, each rune describing a role to perform. The runes were never the abilities people had, but, rather, the abilities they wished they had. And, of course, it's impossible to reach the fantasies, their dreams. The theory's gained some traction recently, despite some fervent opposition by those holding onto the old theories of purity. Almost all of the essays I've had published have been summaries, clarifications, or defences of her work. St. George felt like they needed an expert on her theory, and they hired me. But I'm only on contract. They've continued hiring me, but still have not offered me a full professorship. I have no idea how much longer I'll be here."

"Sounds like you're more passionate about it than you're willing to admit." Hermione commented.

"Perhaps." I finished my drink. "I will admit, there's something satisfying about pissing off those pure blooded shit heads."

Hermione chuckled. "I know the feeling well." We ordered another round of pints. Hermione continued to alternate sips with her small glass of whiskey. "Where else have you taught?" she asked.

"Well, I taught a bit during my phd work. I also worked for a bit in New York."

"In the city?"

"Yeah."

"Where?"

"Seton."

"Seton?"

"Yeah. Are you familiar with it?"

"Sure I am. I studied there."

"Really?"

"I needed to take a few courses at a wizarding university, to be able to write the wizarding bar. I went to Law School at a muggle college, Columbia, so Seton was the most convenient place to take them."

"A muggle college? Why did you not go to a wizarding school? Surely you were accepted at wizarding law schools if you were able to get in a Columbia."

"I did not try to get into a wizarding law school. I had planned to, initially, but then things changed. Everything changed. I left the wizaring world for a few years, and, at the time, I never planned on coming back. A muggle college seemed like the most logical place to be. I guess I just wanted an escape too." She spoke harshly. A blank stare covered her eyes. The look of someone passing through time in their head: past, present, future, and trying hard to ignore it. Her fingers grasped her glass of whiskey tightly.

"Okay." I did not ask further.

We changed the subject for a bit, and shared another round. We were alone on the patio. The waitress wore a blue dress, and a black apron. Her hair was folded to one side, and shaved on the other. She spent most of her time in the doorway, only walking out to serve us. The brittle cold cut into my neck. I zipped my leather jacket up fully. Despite her dress, Hermione looked calm, unaffected by the sharp wind. Her face was stoic. It was painted a light grey, by the bright moon hanging above us.

Hermione talked about her job. She worked in immigration, particularly dealing with refugee claims. The minister was tightening the conditions acceptable for refugee status; Hermione often found herself fighting against his influence. In her eyes, we needed to help more, not less. Despite that, the money was good, and it was a low stress environment. Their offices were in an old brick building near downtown, a small walk from the ministry headquarters. Her office had a nice view of London skyline. Noises from the street snuck through the old windows, allowing a constant hum. It was a good job. She only wished she felt like her work was doing more good. The job in Geneva had that feeling. In Geneva, she was always helping refugees obtain the best conditions; here, she often felt like her job was to fight against them.

I stayed silent, mostly. I smoked a couple of cigarettes from the pack on the table, and drank my beer. It was tranquil. It was nice. Hermione kept her glass of whiskey close. Her finger rested on the surface, occasionally dipping it into the drink.

In my silence, I thought of the hole between us. Hermione pretended we shared a connection. A mutual appreciation for the events we had shared. But it was a lie. I had no idea of the events she went through, and she did not know mine. The connection was a dark emptiness, stretching between us. We stood on opposite ends of a large canyon, pretending the distance brought us together. At most, we shared an echo. A word passed over the crevasse, reflected somewhere deep within the hole, and resonated with the other. Could that be enough? Was that a connection?

Near the end of the night, spontaneously, drunk, and under a spell, in which I was quite unlike myself, with an abrasive curiosity, I was tired of avoiding the canyon between us, and I asked Hermione "why did you almost leave the wizarding world?" Perhaps, with that knowledge, the distance between us could be bridged. At least, it would help to solve a puzzle, one which played in my mind: why is Hermione here now?

She sat silently looking at her drink. Her look was solemn. Cold. The lamp post threw shadows on her face. Her tone was hidden behind a particular curtain, hoping to not let any emotion escape. "I thought I had nothing left to gain from it. Since I started at Hogwarts, I'd been vilified, told I had inferior blood, spit on, carved in. And, after I graduated from St. Georges, there was nothing good left either. Harry was long dead and my marriage was over. So, I decided there was no reason to stay, and I left."

"How long were you married?" I asked.

"Nearly four years. Almost the whole time I was at St. Georges. We were married soon after everything had went down. I was young, and stupid, and when it was over, we weren't in a clear sort of mind. As soon as everything went to shit, and Voldemort started his rebellion, the three of us were put into protection. I spent the whole time in this isolated village in northern Sweden, in the basement of an old log cabin, completely separated and completely alone. I was not even told about what happened to Harry, until the whole thing was over. I was nearly demented by the end of it. It felt like I was in a constant struggle with myself, trying to keep control. When I finally met Ron, those emotions came forward like a torrent."

She smile slightly, with reserve. "I was so happy to see him. More than anything else in the world. Never felt anything like it again, never felt so much relief, as just seeing his boyish grin once more. And it finally felt over, all of those years of fighting. We'd won, as silly as that sounds. St. George gave all of us scholarships, despite not finishing seventh year. It was the first time, in a long time, I felt hopeful. It seemed natural to get married then. Like the culmination, a final celebration to top it all off." She took a large sip of her whiskey.  
"But Ron changed. And I did too, to a certain extent. He never got over Harry's death. And he felt like everyone owed us for what happened. A scholarship at St. Georges was not enough, he deserved better marks, better friends, more money, everything. Like the naive girl I was, I was convinced I was failing to satisfy him, and thought it was all my fault. I became depressed, and I started to focus exclusively on my studies, afraid of my inadequacies, avoiding him, and he, in turn, stopped coming home every night."

"I'm not sure what I thought he was doing, but, at the end of fourth year, when I found out about his cheating, it came as a real shock. Somewhere, deep inside me, I refused to believe he would stoop that low. Like an idiot, I even gave him another shot. And the fucker just walked out, on me, on everything, and I fell apart."

She downed the rest of her whiskey, and continued, "I moved home, and barely left the house for a year. I was done, completely destroyed. I never wanted to see another wizard, see any more magic, anything of the sort again."

"What brought you back?"

She grabbed the pack of cigarettes, and lit another. Her vibrant lips glowed red behind the smoke. "I had a vision, a moment, something, as silly as that sounds. I was studying in the library of Columbia, reading a court case. It was late at night. The room was empty, except for a handful of students in a corner, and, out of nowhere, without a sound Harry sat across from the table at me. But, he didn't look like he used to. He was older, like me. He wore a long coat and a tie. And, I don't know why, but the moment I saw him, I knew it was Harry. The scar was hidden behind the bangs of his hair, but it was there. There was no doubt in my mind. He sat there, completely quiet, staring at me. I stared back, frozen, unable to react. His face looked so," Hermione pass for a moment. She inhaled from her cigarette, and let out a small cloud of smoke. "comforting. Like seeing home for the first time in months. But, even more than that, like finding home for the first time. I started to cry, in his gaze, this boy who I'd missed so much. And, then he just stood up, and walked away."

"Initially, I was in shock. I just sat there, staring where he had been sitting, in silence. Then I got mad. I was so angry at myself, for not saying anything. I had so much I wanted to ask. But, I just stared, like an idiot. But, I also realized, I realized I could not leave the wizarding world. I could not do that to his memory. Harry gave up his life, so that I could have a place in it, and I was running away. He'd given everything to me, everything I had, and I was ignoring it. He gave me the only home I'd ever known, and that home was in the wizarding world. So, I came back. And I decided to help people, as many as I can. That's my promise. That's what I wanted to say to Harry."

She coughed a little, hard on the last syllable. Her fingers brushed the side of her mouth, delicately touching her lips. I stuck out my hand, and muttered a small incantation. The light from the lamp post fell into my palm, and disappeared as I closed my fist. We were there, in the darkness, on the patio of Tender Buttons. Green vines climbed the walls around us, and I held Hermione Granger's hand. Her skin was cold; my grip was firm.

The hole stayed between us. The distance separating us was still far. But, there, for the first time in the night, I felt hope. Not hope of the hole disappearing, or of bridging the gap, but of connecting. Connecting on the echoes between us.


	4. Eyes be Closed

Chapter 4: Eyes be Closed

August 2nd, I woke up, naked, in the bed of Hermione Granger. Her breaths were light. The line of her body laid out next to me. The curls of her hair bunched on the pillow. I laid with my back against the head board. Her feet delicately touched my leg. I smoked a cigarette, and drank my coffee with sugar, solemn.

Sonny Rollins played in the living room. One of the records I stored in Hermione's flat. The yellow milk crate was tucked in the corner, under the table with the record player she bought in the heat of the summer. Rollins' sax sang softly. St. Thomas rang around us. It soothed my uneasiness. A distraction from the sadness I had awoken with.

On the wall, the painting of the girl with red hair and a piercing gaze stared down at me. I could feel her longing and honesty, contained in a thick lined frame. It felt invasive, and a breath of truth. The irrelevant glare lined the empty space in Hermione's room. Long , I suffered in the painting's gaze, and then turned my attention towards Hermione and moved my hand hither and thither on her skin.

Under my affectionate touch, Hermione started to stir. Her shoulders rolled and her joints cracked. "Morning," she mumbled, her mouth muffled by the pillow. She moved her body, naked, and nestled it against my side. My hand continued, hither and thither, hither and thither: a faint shiver crawled down her back.

The record finished in the next room, St. Thomas ended, Rollins' sax stopped, and the intrusive sadness I hoped to forget, returned to my mind. I retracted my hand, brushing her skin lightly, as I brought it to my side. "I made some coffee." I said.

The sadness was not an emotion, but rather a lack of emotion. It pulled any expression of feeling back, deep into the centre of my being, unexposed and chained. An undertow dragging my legs deep into the darkness of the sea. I'd woken a number of times throughout the night, walked to the bathroom, stared at the mirror, and felt nothing at all. After the sun rose, I made some coffee, put on the Sonny Rollins record, and laid stoic on the bed. Hoping, before she awoke, I could find a way to feel again. Push back against the overwhelming pull.

Hermione, nestled from her sleep, kissed me gently. The curls of her hair were arranged in a mess. My hand crept up her skin, and I pulled her close to me. Her breasts brushed against my chest. She passed her fingers through my black hair. A moan, light kisses, small stabs, brought her face down to my neck. I held her hips tight to me; my hands held her ass. Our movements aligned. Her heart began to race, and I was pulled away, deep into the miring irrelevance which I hoped not to be consumed. I did not care. I did not care for her, not then. I'd been swept away from her grasp. She kissed me, traced down my back with her fingers, thrusted along with me, but I had no emotion. I had no connection. I had only sadness on August 2nd.

I pushed Hermione off of me. I turned my body and sat upright on the side of the bed, my back towards her, my head in my hands.

She laid still, as if time stopped when I pushed her away. "Theo?" She spoke, her voice concerned, confused, vulnerable, hurt.

I could not turn around, and face her. I was petty. What was I doing there? There was no saving me. The sadness was too deep, the pull too strong.

"Sorry," I whispered.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

I stayed silent.

"Theo, speak to me. Please, speak to me. You never tell me when something's wrong."

I stood up from the bed. I would leave. I felt nothing. Nothing could be gained by staying, nothing could be lost, nothing, nothing, nothing. I was cruel, I was mean, I was blank.

"Stop!" Hermione yelled at me. "Come on Theo. Please. Did I do something wrong?"

"No," I muttered. Blank. I started to put on my clothes from the night before.

"You can't just do this! You can't just say that and leave! Something's wrong. That's okay. But, you have to talk to me. You have to tell me what's wrong. If you don't, then I can't help you, I can't do anything. I'm not okay with that. I'm not. You need to talk to me." She threw herself, exposed, onto the bed. The line of her body, the curve of her breasts, laid upward in the morning light. With a reserved voice, slow for emphasis, she said "I can't keep doing this, if you won't talk to me."

"It's nothing." I said, fitting my underwear around my waist.

"Nothing?" She called at me, irate, sitting upwards.

But I was honest! It was nothing. It was this great nothing pulling me down. Only, I knew it's name. I knew what the sadness, which pulled me deep into the sea, was called.

I sat down, on the side of the bed, and said "it's Blaise."

"Blaise?" Hermione asked.

...

August 2nd, 18 years ago, Blaise died.

He was home, in the lower class pureblood neighbourhood on the southern edge of Sutton, where he grew up. Aurors were rounding up pureblood sympathizers after Voldemort's death. The Deatheaters decided to fight back, and it turned bloody. Many were caught in the crossfire, between the old brick buildings, on the southern edge of Sutton. We promised never to return to those places; a pact never to return to those awful hobbles filled with people who'd let their blood poison them. Blaise broke that pact, and he died. I broke the pact, and I lived.

I had only sadness on August 2nd.

Blaise and I were never friends. We shared sparse words between us, our first couple years in Slytherin. I spent most of my time alone. A silent boy on the posterior. A bird who could only feel alive flying away from the flock and their ebbing trajectory. I found solace in books; Hemingway and Fitzgerald were my friends. We'd eat together on the distant shores of Europe, far from our American homes.

There was something different about Blaise. He was a gentle guy. Contrasted with the fierce venomous rhetoric spewed in that house. Slytherin was a fearful place. Tensions were high. Kids were afraid of one another. There was to be a revolution soon; purebloods against mudbloods. Blaise played his Aretha Franklin and Janis Joplin tapes. He'd crack a joke, and fill the room with his booming laughter. He was quite unlike the dreary windowless house.

I got to know Blaise in sixth year. We were in a couple honours courses together. It was me, Blaise and Draco, the only Slytherin boys. We sat together in the back. They talked about girls, mischief, quidditch, and fate. I stayed mostly quiet. We stayed up late together, studying for tests, and Draco would trail on about status and our future. He believed we would graduate together, rent a flat, and attend St. Georges. The smartest boys in Slytherin making a mark on the world. A dream lost in the endless possibilities of the world.

In seventh year, Voldemort's revolution began. Draco was one of the first to leave. His father, one of Voldemort's lieutenants, kept Draco close. Many followed. Every week there were fewer at the Slytherin table. After Christmas, when the fighting intensified, and Harry was publicly killed, everyone started to leave. Civil war seemed imminent. The halls were sombre and quiet.

One night, in our dorm room, Blaise came to me. He was crying. We were some of the few left. Empty beds surrounded us. Blaise's voice cracked, and he croaked, the booming laughter broken. Like a confession, he started to tell me his fears. He feared war. He feared fighting for a side he did not believe in. He feared siding against his family. He feared abandoning those close to him. He feared having to fight. He feared having to kill someone. He feared death. He feared death most of all.

"I don't know what to do," he confessed, broken.

"We could run," I suggested.

"Run? Where?"

"Somewhere far from here. Maybe America."

"How would we get there? They're monitoring all travel."

"Not all travel, not muggle travel."

"Do you honestly not think the ministry is watching planes and trains?"

"They might be. What about boats?"

"Boats? How would we be able to get to America on a boat?"

"They're cruises from Southampton to New York."

"How do you know that?" Blaise asked.

"This isn't the first time I've considered running away."

Our plan was hastily put together. Blaise knew a squib who'd let us buy pounds. We'd bus down to Southampton, and use magic to forge muggle documents. There was no guarantee that the Ministry was not monitoring boat travel, but, we were willing to risk it. It was unlikely the ministry would use their resources on such a small form of transportation. In America, I hoped to claim refugee status. We were refugees from both sides; there were no safe homes to return to.

Blaise and I barely spoke. We were afraid. If the plan went wrong, or if the war came too soon, there were too many possibilities. Blaise sat in his bed, listening to Aretha Franklin, hoping to gain some courage. I liked the silence.

And then, days before we left Hogwarts, and Blaise and I were to begin our plan, Voldemort was killed outside of Plymouth, and everything changed...

...

"Are you going to visit the memorial?" Hermione asked, dressing by the bed.

"No."

"Have you ever been?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I've never wanted to. What can I learn from a gravestone?"

"Nothing. I just thought you might want see Blaise once more. His name's there."

"Maybe one day."

"Why not today?"

"I don't know."

...

Hermione drove a red sedan. We travelled south down the A203 and A24, through Tooting, down to Sutton. An Oscar Peterson tape played in the stereo. I wore my black suit from the night before. Hermione looked slim in an evening jacket and black pants. I stared out of the window, silent. Hermione talked about her job. Her relation with the Minister was deteriorating. They were often at odds. The government was strictly limiting the terms for refugee claims. Hermione hated it. Her job had divulged into overseeing rejections, not processing acceptances. It weighed on her.

I could feel my heart race. I'd never been to Sutton. I'd never been to visit Blaise. The idea felt absurd. He was gone. But, there was something about returning to his resting place. The place that had taken him away: the neighbourhood and its poisoned blood. My stomach was filled with rotten teeth.

I lit a cigarette.

"How are you feeling?" Hermione asked.

"I'm alright," I lied.

Hermione reached over, and held my hand.

"I know it's tough, visiting a friend who's gone."

She turned left onto A297 at the fork.

"Was Blaise from around here?"

"Yes."  
"Did he like it?"

"I'm not sure." I inhaled. "He promised me he'd never return."

"Really?"

"Yeah, during the school year. We swore never to return home."

"But you did."

"Yeah."

We stayed right, and followed down the A217.

"Do you know what happened to him, here, in Sutton?" she asked.

"No." The sun beamed down at me through the window. It was bright, a nice day. The perfect time to be reminded of death. To muse about what had been lost. "I never read any details, just his name. All I know is that he was caught in the crossfire."

"Yeah? How do you know that?"

"What else could it be? Blaise would never fight. He was a gentle guy."  
"Gentle?" Hermione said, confused.

"Yeah. He was different from everyone else in Slytherin."

Hermione slipped her hand from mine. "Was he?" She sounded unsure.

"Is something wrong?" I asked.

"It's nothing. It's nothing. Just forget about it."

"No, please."

"Seriously, forget about it." She breathed deeply. "Fuck! I always do this. I always ruin things."

"Hermione?"

"I'm sorry Theo, I am, but I what you just described was not the Blaise I used to know."

"Sure. You didn't know him well."

"That's true ... it's just. Dammit!" She hit the steering wheel in frustration.

"It's just what Hermione?"

"You remember when Draco carved mudblood in my arm?" Her voice sounded fragile; the words difficult to say. "Right up my forearm, using that butterfly knife?"

"Yeah."

With tears in her eyes, she responded. "Blaise was the one who held me down."

I stayed silent. The rotten teeth in my stomach turned to gunk and slowly crawled up my throat. I stared out the window. My cigarette rested between two fingers. The bright sun beating down on me.

...

We arrived mid afternoon at the memorial. It was a large stone pillar about twelve feet high. The statue was built in a small park, just off of the old brick neighbourhood. Tall red flowers bled in a wave of thin gardens around the epitaph. There were a couple of people standing in the park. Some walked through the flowerbeds; others stood stoic, staring at the names. An eery silence reverberated. The sound of passing cars filled the air.

"I thought there'd be more people here," Hermione said.

"No one wants to remember a mistake."

We walked towards the pillar. A simple engraving rested over top of a large list of names: _Here at this site 30 men and women lost their lives on August 2__nd__._ There were about twenty names in total. They were arranged alphabetically according to last name. At the very bottom of the list sat his name: _Blaise Zabini__ ... aged 17 years. _

Like a punch to the stomach, I fell to the ground. Hermione rested her hand on my back. In an instance, the emptiness of August 2nd, the eternal sadness which plagued me, exploded into those emotions I'd been hiding from. A vertiginous pulse tore through my body, passing by each tense muscle, and hitting every bone. The thoughts I never wanted to face again. Those dark shadows which had plagued me deep in my sleep, clutching tight around my fears, holding back any expression of happiness, or seeding feeling that I could connect with someone else, came forward, pushing outward. I choked. I silently begged.

I killed Blaise.

I killed the gentle boy from Slytherin; the crying kid who came to me in his moment of weakness. I'd killed him. I'd killed him.

In a torrent, for the first time in years, I began to cry. "I'm sorry Blaise," I said. "I'm so, so, sorry. Please. You have to understand. I'm sorry. Please, please, I'm sorry."

Hermione knelt down next to me. She wrapped her arms around my shoulders. I held onto her hand. My breathing became erratic.

How did I let it happen? Why did I let those around me die? First, I killed Blaise. And then, I let Draco die. I knew he'd never survive, not in those ugly white houses, not with his poisoned blood, not without me. I knew it was the last time I'd see my friend, and I left anyway. I was tired. Two years I was imprisoned on that block. I needed to leave. I needed to! And for what? I practically gave him the noose. Draco needed people. He needed me. If I'd stayed I could have helped him seen through it. At least, until he went to trial, then they could have helped him. He could have gotten help. He must have. There must have been a way. There should have been a way.

Those times Blaise, Draco and I stayed up late studying felt more real than the life I'd lived. We were supposed to have gone to Saint Georges, we were supposed to rent a loft, we were supposed to be the three smartest boys in Slytherin, making their mark on the world. How could this have been what really happened? How could I be the only one left? Blaise never got to see a day after 17 years. Draco never go to see a day after 19. And there I was, with 35 years I'd been able to see, almost double what they got, how was that fair? How could I keep going?

Hermione rubbed her hand around my back: hither and thither. "It's okay. It's okay," she spoke, reassuringly.

"No. No. Oh God, this is my fault. It's my fault."

"It's not your fault." She said firmly.

"Yes it is." I tried to struggle free from her grasp, but she held tightly. Her hand continued: hither and thither, hither and thither. "Blaise and I were going to run away. We were going to escape everything. We didn't want to fight. We were going to Southampton, to take a boat, and go to America. Avoid all of this. But, but,"

"Theo, it's not your fault. The aurors were the ones who did this." Hermione said.

I continued, as if I did not hear her, "Voldemort died. Everything changed. You know that. Everyone does. What were we supposed to do? What would we be running away from? I thought it was over. Like a stupid naive kid, I thought it was over. And, dear God, I've hated myself ever since. I convinced him. I convinced Blaise not to go through with the plan. He was ready to continue. And I made him come back, come back here."

"Theo. You didn't know. There's no way you could know things could play out this way. It's not your fault this happened."

"Oh God, why did we not try?"

"Theo, please." She held me tightly. "Look, after Voldemort's death, the ministry dedicated themselves to finding and arresting every death eater. They would have been monitoring boat travel. You two would have been caught. You would never have received your pardon. You would have went to jail. You'd never be here now."

"I know."

"You'd still do it?"

Looking up, at the names on the stone pillar, _Blaise Zabini ... aged 17._

"In a heartbeat."

...

"Can I ask you a question?" Hermione's voice was soft.

The car ride back had been silent. I lounged back in the passenger's seat, staring out the window, watching the world pass by. Hermione gripped the wheel tightly. She stared straight at the road, and did not turn her head towards me.

"Alright," I said.

"Why were you always so different, than the rest of the Slytherin kids? It felt like all of them were terrified of mudbloods. Voldemort's revolution was just a culmination to a sentiment they all shared. All of them except you. You were always different. Why?"

"It's not a good answer."

"Try me."

"My mother died when I was a baby. Near the end of the first Voldemort revolution, she and my uncle were part of a group that attacked the ministry. They were all killed. When I grew up, my father was reserved. He hid in his room, and listened to his records. So, it was my grandfather who actually raised me. And he was proud, so fucking proud, of my mother's death. She was a hero in his mind; a martyr for the most noble of causes. I hated it. I hated him. I hated him so fucking much. I did not care about mudbloods, or Voldemort, or pureblood. I wanted my mother. She looked really pretty, in all of our photos. She had the best smile. I just wanted, once, for her to smile at me."

In continued: "I guess, I just began to associate all of that kind of thinking to my grandfather and mother. It sickened me. It seemed so pointless. All I could see was the cost we paid." I breathed deeply. "I know it sounds selfish, but that's why."

"Don't be like that." She reached over, and held my hand. "I think that's a wonderful reason."

Her finger gently traced lines hither and thither over my palm.

Hither and thither, hither and thither.

...

...

...

I hope you like it.

Please Leave a Review.

Thanks. BJ.


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